


Extra: Learning to Fly

by Medeafic



Series: Supernova [18]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Bloodplay, Knifeplay, M/M, mention of abusive relationships, mention of branding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-15
Updated: 2011-06-15
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medeafic/pseuds/Medeafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fic is set within the Captain Spanky and Supernova universe and was written for the very patient and very lovely LJer aprilleigh24, for her generous donation to Help Brazil.  She wanted to know more about how other people in the story saw Chris and Zach's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extra: Learning to Fly

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Brilliant Beta Emmessann; you really saved my ass on this one and made it much better than it was. And thank you to LJers zjofierose and angelrox040 for some key suggestions.
> 
> Note on chronology: This fic is set mostly after the end of the Supernova series, except for a few flash backs to Chris's meetings with Corey and Neal in Balancing Act, Bits and Pieces and Black Hole. Byron initially appeared in Black Hole. This is also intended as a kind of bridge to the third series and references things that will happen in it.

**i) Byron**

It takes a long time for Byron to stop thinking obsessively about Chris Pine. He waits a few days after their encounter to send a message to Chris Pine’s account on the kink site, asking whether they could meet up again, maybe put into practice some of the things they talked about.

But Chris Pine doesn’t reply, and Byron waits another week before sending another _Hey, man, do you wanna catch up again?_ message, and then a month and a half before a _Hey, you still there?_ knowing how desperate it makes him seem. But it’s Chris Pine, he’s probably used to it, and it’s _Chris Pine_ , Byron would be a complete moron if he didn’t _try_. Besides, he’s desperate to try all that stuff. But one day the profile disappears, and the email address bounces back as unreachable, and Byron has to admit to himself that Chris Pine is not going to contact him again.

He can’t help thinking of him only as Chris Pine, or sometimes, when the disbelief hits again, _Chris Motherfucking Pine_. In his fantasies, he calls him Sir or Master (the latter if he’s looking for a super-quick shooting time) and Chris Pine calls Byron slave, slut, whore, hole, and worse. He’s pretty sure he could die happy watching Chris Pine’s voluptuous pink lips mouthing those words while he brands his initials deep into Byron’s flesh.

Netflix has most of Chris Pine’s back catalogue and Byron devours them, searching his face and performance for clues, suggestions. Each character sets off a new flurry of fantasies: _Bottleshock_ Chris Pine punishing him if he can’t tell his cabernet from his merlot; _Surrender Dorothy_ Chris Pine making him dress up in drag; _Confession_ Chris Pine threatening him and calling him names like in the movie – although in Byron’s fantasy, it ends in a forced fuck over the stair railing instead of accidental death. And _Star Trek_ Chris Pine – well, Byron has jacked off to _Star Trek_ more times than he can count now. When _Unstoppable_ comes out, he’s at the first showing with a bunch of friends, and embarrasses himself by popping a boner at the sight of Chris Pine in underwear.

He sets Google alerts and obsessively reads all the fetish profiles on every site he can think of, in case Chris Pine signed up under another name. And even as the time goes by, and the likelihood of ever seeing him again in the flesh grows smaller and smaller, Byron does his best to construct himself into the kind of sub he thinks Chris Pine might like. Obedient, and graceful, and well-behaved. Polite. Someone who wouldn’t embarrass him on the red carpet but who would immediately go down on him in the limo when ordered. Someone who would take whatever Chris Pine dished out and afterwards say, thank you very much, may I clean your boots for you, Sir?

During summer break his parents insist on him coming to Greece to visit the extended family he’s never met and doesn’t care about. Byron is even more annoyed by the fact that last time his parents went over they let him stay alone, and that was the summer he met Chris Pine. The thought that it’s been over a year since he saw Chris Pine makes him depressed, and he sulks for a while after arriving, but Greece is beautiful, and the men more so. None of them are Chris Pine, but some of them come pretty close.

His mother, who named him George after Lord Byron, takes him to Sounion to see the temple of Poseidon where the poet carved his name into one of the pillars. The temple is cordoned off but they are shown, from a distance, Lord Byron’s graffiti, and it’s thrilling to see. He even recites Byron’s lines about Sounion for the group, mostly old American tourists. Afterwards, he sits by himself away on his own and looks out over the ocean for a half hour, watching the way the sun shines a river of liquid silver from the horizon towards him. He writes a sonnet comparing Chris Pine’s eyes to blue of the sea, and he thinks it’s pretty good. His mother does too, after she cajoles him into letting her read it, although she tells him, “Georgie, this is lovely, but let’s not show Papa. He might not understand.”

Well, no one understands him anyway. He doesn’t understand himself half the time. But trying to live up to the hypothetical standards of Chris Pine gives him structure at least.

This is what he tells himself.

  
***

  
It’s sixteen months and three days before he sees Chris Pine again, and it’s thanks to Papa of all people, whose profession has always seemed dull and embarrassing. But all it takes is one TV star’s gratitude for an emergency fix to a broken tooth late on a Sunday night, and Byron finds himself with a second-hand invitation to a real live celebrity party.

All his friends flake on him because none of them watch _White Collar_ so they’re less than impressed by a Matt Bomer housewarming invitation. Anyway, they’re more interested in smoking up these days than doing anything fun. Byron quit pot the day after Chris Pine said he never played under the influence, and he’s planning to quit his friends, too. Once he finds a new group to hang with.

But there’s no way Byron is missing the party, so he turns up alone, with a paper plate of baklava his mother made and insisted he take. He wants to dump it behind the bushes before he gets to the door, but he can’t bring himself to do it, imagining her hurt if she ever found out.

He makes his way rapidly to the kitchen after he’s let in, planning to leave the baklava innocuously on the counter, but the kitchen is just as packed as every other room on the first floor, and he has to push his way through.

Byron is sucking a stray blob of honey off his finger when he sees Chris Pine standing across the crowded room. His heart stops. It’s just like a movie, as he pushes past people and makes his way to those magnetic blue eyes. Just like a movie until the last minute, when Chris Pine turns around because someone is calling his name from the other room. But Byron manages a last desperate lunge and grabs his arm.

“Chris Pine.” Byron hopes his face looks less stupid than his mouth sounds. “I mean, hi. Random stranger except not really because I recognize you. Because you’re a movie star. Not because I know you from anywhere else.” He can’t stop chattering, and now he’s coloring up, he can feel it. “Sorry. I…”

Chris Pine has swiveled around in surprise. His eyes go wide for a second and then narrow. “I know you.”

Byron nods eagerly. Chris Pine looks down at Byron’s fingers, digging into his forearm. Byron lets go of his arm, and awkwardly sticks out his hand, like his parents have taught him to do ever since he’s been old enough to stand on his own two legs. Chris Pine looks at his proffered hand, and gives a twisted smile. He shakes hands, his grip firm. Just like Byron has always imagined – solid and self-assured. Byron thinks about that hand on his cock and feels his legs get wobbly.

But – fuck. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to shake hands. “Sorry, I didn’t – that’s probably not the right etiquette. Sir.”

“Oh, my God,” Chris Pine murmurs. He pulls his hand away and scratches his head, his eyes scanning the crowd behind Byron.

“I’m sorry, Sir, really.” He’s babbling. But he _has_ to be convincing. The last thing he wants to do is fuck up this opportunity. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I’m not trying to embarrass you or anything, Sir. Sorry.”

“Please stop apologizing. And _please_ stop calling me – that. It’s just Chris. Really. You don’t have to—”

“But I _want_ to,” Byron breathes, trying to project sincerity and willingness and want all at the same time through his eyes. Chris scratches his head again, scrunches up his nose.

“Really,” he says again. “I’m not…”

They’re interrupted by some tall, dark and skinny guy and Byron scowls at him until he recognizes him, too. It’s fucking _Sylar_. This night is turning surreal.

“Hello, Christopher,” Sylar purrs. “Am I interrupting?”

“Zach,” – oh, right, _of course_ , Zachary Quinto, _Spock_ – “This is…Christ.”

“The Messiah, huh?” Zach says, raising one of his stupid, strong eyebrows. “Wow. This party really _is_ A-list.”

Chris hisses something at Zach and then gives Byron an easy smile. “Sorry. It’s Byron, right?”

He remembers. _He remembers_. “Right!”

“Byron and I met a while ago. He, uh. We…”

“We met online,” Byron supplies. And then takes a tiny step backwards. The look on Zach’s face is abruptly murderous and sure, maybe Byron is sending out _back off_ signals, but it doesn’t seem like such a big deal. He just wants a shot with Chris, just a shot, that’s all. But Zach looks like he’s about to go Sylar on his ass, or worse.

“Christopher, is _this_ –”

“ _No,_ ” Chris says, and Byron glances down to see that he’s holding Zach by the wrist, his fingers white with tension. “No, Zach. This is _Byron_.” And Zach settles visibly, although his hands are still clenched up into fists.

“Oh. Hello, Byron,” he says.

“Hello,” Byron says, his muscles still tensed for action. The rapid deceleration from homicidal to politely interested is disconcerting.

“Chris has spoken about you. Pleasure to meet you.” Chris is glaring at Zach now, but with nowhere near the same scary intensity that Zach managed to project with his thunderous brows.

“ _Zach_ —”

“Alright, alright.” Zach holds up conciliatory hands. “I was just wondering when you wanted to leave. I thought you might be reaching your interaction threshold. Come get me when you want to go.” He saunters back into the crowd, raising a finger in a brief _nice-to-meet-you_ gesture at Byron.

“Look, Byron—”

“You told him about me?” Byron tries to quell it, the sense of betrayal. “What did you say? I never told anyone about _you_. I didn’t think you’d want me to. I was trying to do what you wanted.” He doesn’t add, I was trying to _be_ what you wanted.

Chris puts a gentle hand on Byron’s shoulder. His face is close now, so close that Byron can pick out the individual eyelashes around his eyes, and actually, those eyes are little lighter in color than the waters at Sounion. But no less spectacular. The sensuous cast of his mouth is like a replica of those of the endless statues his mother dragged him to see in Athens, and he can’t stop staring at it. Chris opens it to say, “Thank you. Really. And listen, I told Zach because…”

“Oh.” Everything becomes clear in a rush. “ _Oh._ You’re together.”

Chris looks cautious, his eyes darting to the sides to make sure no-one’s listening and Byron, despite the disappointment and regret in his gut, feels privileged. It’s a secret, and he’s part of the exclusive group of people who knows this stuff about Chris Pine. “Do you _do_ stuff with him?” he asks, whispering. “Like we did?” Or didn’t, actually, but Chris doesn’t correct him.

“In a manner of speaking,” Chris says slowly.

“I wish you’d emailed me again.” Byron’s voice is small and sad, and he wishes like hell he sounded less pathetic, but the look on Chris’s face – regretful, slightly guilty – makes it worthwhile. “But I get why you didn’t.” He gestures in Zachary’s direction.

Chris squeezes his shoulder lightly and makes a trite excuse about needing to circulate. “Stay safe, okay? Promise me.”

Watching Chris Pine’s retreating ass is one of the most melancholy moments of Byron’s life so far.

  
***

  
The upstairs portion of the house is dark and quiet, and Byron is sure no one will see him trudging up there. He pulls dejection around him like a shield of invisibility, and it works – he slips up the staircase unnoticed. The first door he comes to is ajar. It’s a bedroom with the full moon hanging outside the window like a miserable, jaundiced eye, its light bleaching color from every surface in the room. The en suite is cold but darker, so Byron stays in there. He leans against the counter, staring at the indecipherable lines of his reflection in the mirror, and wishes he had a cigarette, or a drink, or something other than nothing.

“Dumbass,” he tells the looming figure in the mirror, and leans up against the chilly tile to wait until he can leave without awkward questions from his mother about why he’s home so early. Once his eyes adjust, Byron can see that the bathroom is large and fancy. There’s an old-fashioned claw footed tub with exposed copper pipes against the wall and a range of mini-bottles for guests on the counter, along with some Kleenex and cotton pads.

Before he can take out his iPod, there’s a noise in the bedroom. The door opens, and Byron freezes. The angle of the en suite gives him a perfect view in the mirror of the two people entering, Zachary Quinto and oh fuck, Chris Pine.

“Just for a second,” Chris whispers.

“Yeah, we shouldn’t be doing this,” Zach says, but his indulgent tone doesn’t match the words.

“Sure we should.” Chris looks at the bedroom door, feeling around for a lock, but there is none. He glances around the room – Byron stays perfectly still, praying he won’t be noticed skulking in the shadowy en suite – and then pulls a heavy chair over and shoves it up under the handle.

“Matt’s not going to mind,” Chris continues. “And you were right, I’m tired of people. I just want to be alone with you for a while. Clear my head.”

Byron chews on a cuticle, frantically replaying all the online BDSM etiquette manuals he’s ever read. Nope. He recalls no advice on what to do if you’re stuck in a bathroom accidentally spying on people who seem like they’re about to do… _something_.

“We can just go. Don’t want you to tire yourself out.”

“No, I know you’re enjoying it. We can stay another hour. I just need a moment.”

Zach laughs. “Oh, _okay_. Sir.”

They smile at each other, teeth flashing white but muted in the dim light. “You’re not funny, Zachary,” Chris says, and then kisses him. Byron touches a finger to his lips, wondering how it might feel to be kissed by that incredible mouth. “And I feel bad about that,” Chris continues, pulling away.

“There’s no reason to. It was what it was at the time. And anyway…” Zach leans in to kiss him again, and Byron figures that their dynamic must be more relaxed than he’s read about and seen, because _he_ sure wouldn’t be so pushy as to kiss without permission. But Chris doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he’s pulling Zach closer, and the way they break and rest forehead-on-forehead looking into each other’s eyes makes Byron’s cheeks burn. Zach says something too quiet for him to hear.

This isn’t something he should be witnessing. This is private, and he’s an awful person for looking.

Byron turns away from the mirror, determined to sit on the closed toilet seat or perch on the edge of the bath and just be silent, ignore the two men in the other room, and wait for them to leave. He’ll cover his ears if he has to. He’s still determined to live up to the standards he thinks Chris Pine would have for a submissive, and Byron is sure clandestine voyeurism would be on the Do Not list.

But then Chris chuckles, and what he says makes Byron listen intently despite himself. “I thought you were going to deck him.”

Zach sounds contrite when he says, “I thought he was that other one.”

“Yeah. I know.” More kissing noises, and then, “Even if he had been, you can’t go around hitting people.”

“We seem to have swapped roles.”

“I’m serious, Zach.”

Byron creeps to the door, fascinated. They’re standing side-on, although he has a better view of Chris’s face, his gaze grave and unwavering. He’s frowning slightly, and looks like he’s trying to read Zach’s face, holding it in his hands. “I mean it. It was a long time ago, and it wasn’t your fight to begin with.”

“I _told_ you I wasn’t going to do anything. And I haven’t.” Zach sounds like he’s on the verge of sulking, and Byron rolls his eyes. The Chris Pine of his fantasies wouldn’t put up with that kind of bullshit. He’d—

“Stop sulking.”

Yeah, he’d do that, but maybe punctuate it with a tug of hair.

Zach doesn’t seem chastened. “Make me,” he says, and Byron frowns. Chris Pine apparently likes his subs bratty.

“Zach.”

“Don’t you want to, Sir?”

“Oh, give me a break.”

Byron is fleetingly puzzled by the amused expression on Chris’s face, but the way he cranes his neck when Zach leans in to kiss it chases any thoughts out of his head. Furtively, and with a squirming feeling of shame in his gut, Byron places his palm gently over his hardening cock and presses. If he were Chris Pine’s sub? He wouldn’t make demands like that and he would _always_ make sure he kept close-shaven so he didn’t scratch up that golden skin. Not like Zach is doing, rubbing his face into Chris’s neck and making it blossom an angry pink, visible even in the dull moonlight.

Although…Chris seems to be enjoying it, pulling him closer and making a perfect little noise that Byron is sure he’ll be thinking about every time he jacks off for _months_.

“But we should do that again, soon,” Zach says, pushing Chris rapidly backwards across the room until they bump up into a wall. “Swap roles.” Byron has to come closer to the crack in the door to keep them in view, even as he berates himself for watching. But he’s so _curious_. And confused. This is _not_ how he envisioned Chris Pine acting in-scene, unless he’s letting Zach get away with stuff before reasserting himself. That thought gets Byron semi-hard and he has to concentrate to quiet his breathing.

“You think?” Chris says. Zach has his arm up on the wall, blocking both their faces from Byron’s view, but he can still hear them clearly.

“You’re getting antsy sometimes. I can feel it.”

“I am not. You’re projecting.”

“Ooh. Big term for someone who hates analysis so much.”

Chris slides his hand around Zach and hangs his thumb in the waistband of his jeans, stroking idly with his fingers against the denim. “I don’t hate it, I—” He breaks off so abruptly, and it’s so quiet, that Byron chances looking around the door a little further. “Zach?”

“Mm?”

“Is that…”

Byron can see that Chris’s hand has stalled over the back pocket of Zach’s jeans.

“Would you like to see?” Zach asks. His voice is all low and throaty.

Chris gives a nervous laugh, and Byron frowns, rubs his nose in irritation, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

“Not really?” There’s a pleading tone in Chris’s voice that just sounds _wrong_ to Byron. It’s not dominant _at all_.

“Why don’t you take it out?” Zach suggests, but it’s absolutely not a suggestion, that much is clear. Byron watches, fascinated, as Chris’s fingers inch slowly, carefully into Zach’s pocket as though he’s expecting to find a mouse trap in there. They re-emerge with something black and shiny. Chris’s fingers curl, drawing the object up into his palm, but Byron has already recognized it as a knife.

His mouth goes slack, and his heart starts thumping. It’s too loud.

Zach asks, “Are you going to look at it?” and although he still can’t see Chris’s face properly, Byron can see him shaking his head. “I think you are. I think you’re going to look at it.”

Byron takes a small step back, squeezing his head in his hands. There is definitely something _not right_ in that tone as well, and he’s not sure what he should do. This whole situation is fucked up, and getting more so, and it’s _weird_ , really weird. It feels like the whole world is spinning.

Zach takes a step back, and Chris’s arm falls back from his waist. Byron can see Chris’s face clearly now, and the look on it is a shock to him. Adoration and apprehension and _lust_.

“You’re going to look at it, aren’t you Christopher?”

Chris licks his lips. “Whatever you want, Zach.”

No way. No _way_.

If Byron could move, he would. The sense of betrayal from earlier is returning in a big, big way, and with it, disgust – at himself, for holding on to stupid childish fantasies for so long, and at Chris Pine, who is not who he said he was.

 _Liar._  
  
But Byron is frozen, and his dick is still pulsing as he watches, getting harder even though he feels like crying.

Zach reaches out to touch Chris’s face, gently rubbing the back of a finger under his jaw and Chris leans into the touch, despite his fearful expression.

“Why did you bring it here? Are you going to—”

“No questions. Not at the moment.”

Chris nods, his eyes heavy-lidded and dreamy. Zach slides his hand down, loosely ringing his neck, thumb stroking up the jugular. Byron, craving the touch, lifts a hand to clutch around his own neck. His mouth parts when Chris’s does. Judging by the way Chris shifts his hips, _his_ cock is growing heavy too.

“Hold it up and look at it, Christopher.”

Chris gradually raises his arm and uncurls his fingers slowly, but keeps his eyes on Zach’s face. Zach removes the hand from Chris’s throat and threads fingers into his hair instead, clutching a fistful of it. Byron can see, from the wince Chris gives, that Zach is pulling it tight.

“You’re not looking at it,” Zach says, and Chris closes his eyes. When he opens his eyes again, he focuses on the knife in his hand. “Good. You’re being _very_ good.” His hand relaxes in Chris’s hair, as Byron’s does in his own – he’s unconsciously been grabbing at his hair, mimicking Zach’s action. And then Zach coaxes Chris forward from the wall, eases him into the middle of the room again. “How are you doing, Christopher? Are you afraid?”

Chris gives a short nod, and Byron sees then that his hand, still raised with the knife lying in his palm, is shaking. Zach starts walking around him in a slow circle, which means that Byron can occasionally see both their faces at the same time. Zach’s gaze roams up and down Chris’s body, stopping on his rigid legs and trembling hands, on his crotch and, when he walks behind, on his ass.

“Why are you afraid?”

Chris licks his lips and Byron can see that he wants to answer, but can’t. Chris Pine is a liar and a fraud, but Byron can’t help feeling deeply sorry for him, a shiver of empathy that runs right through his body. If he were in Chris’s shoes, Byron doesn’t think he’d be able to talk right now either. Knives are scary.

And Zach looks predatory.

At last Chris says, “You said you were going to cut me tonight.”

“Do you think I’m going to cut you here?”

“I don’t know.” There’s a long, long pause, and Byron waits anxiously. “I don’t think so.”

Zach stops behind him and reaches around into his hand, takes the knife. He wraps his arms around Chris and brushes his lips against Chris’s ear. “No. I definitely wouldn’t ask you to do that. But thank you for trusting me. You’re very brave.”

Once the knife is out of sight, the tension leaves Chris’s body, and he relaxes back into Zach’s embrace. “Brave? I’m terrified.”

“But you work through the fear. That’s what courage is about, keeping your reactions in check.”

“Like with the fucking paps?”

“Like with the fucking paps. You’re getting much better with them. I’m very proud of you.”

“Even that guy the other week?”

“We’ll call that one an aberration. Besides, he _was_ way out of line. And it doesn’t make me any less proud of you.” Chris wriggles, looks self-conscious but pleased. “I’m always proud of you.”

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“You like that, though,” Zach says, smiling, and nuzzles his neck. “And I like watching the way you blush. But it’s true, Christopher, I’m proud of everything you do. It’s a privilege to be able to work with you, let alone fuck you. I can’t stop talking about you tonight.”

The flattery is making Chris squirm, but he can’t stop his huge grin. “You’re probably boring everyone.”

“Nah. In between talking about how brilliant you are, I’m giving graphic descriptions of the noises you make when I rim you.”

“You are not!” But Chris looks and sounds delighted.

Byron slinks back further into the darkened bathroom, his face hot and sudden tears stinging his eyes. All of his fantasies, all the things he’s imagined having done to himself, none of them have had any tenderness behind them. Pain and humiliation and degradation, sure. He’s been attracted to the idea of obliterating his self, because…fuck. His cheeks are wet.

Care has never been part of his vocabulary when he tries to define the kind of relationship he wants. He’s never, not for a second, really thought that any Dom would actually care about him. Want him, lust after him, fuck him, hurt him, be pleased by him, control him, make decisions for him: all of that. But _care_?

He’s never even thought about it before, and now, seeing it between them, so strong that it’s just about tangible, he’s overcome with a horrible, painful jealousy. And he thinks about the fantasies he’s had about Chris Pine, for so long now, every night, every day, wishing for him and wanting marks from his hands. But that man – he doesn’t exist. And the real Chris has exactly what Byron wants. It’s not _fair_.

Chris’s voice is still audible. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know what. My head’s back in the game.”

“You just needed a second. Nothing much to do with me.”

“Seeing that knife makes me focus, and you know it.”

“Maybe.”

“You can be proud of me and I can say thank you to you. Okay?”

Byron slumps on to the closed toilet seat. Every word feels directed at him, showing him what he’s missed seeing, and missing out on. All those times Byron tried to live up to impossible standards, tried to be perfect for someone who never even existed, come flooding back to him. He feels bitter. He tried so hard for nothing, never even realized what he _could_ have had and – and that phony, that imposter Chris Pine, _he_ gets rewarded?

“Okay,” Zach says, his voice sweet. “Seems like a fair trade. You ready to go back out? Or we can leave if you want.”

“No. I want to go out there and watch you across the room and think about what we’re going to do later. And when I can’t stand it a second longer, we’ll go home and you can make me bleed.”

“You say such beautiful things, Christopher.”

Byron wants to cry, really let go and sob with abandon. He keeps his hands over his face, trying to calm himself, at least until they leave. There’s anger, too, overwhelming resentment towards this man who fueled his fantasies for so long. This man who _deceived_ him.

And overlying that, Byron can feel his allegiances changing, pulling away from Chris Pine and stretching out tentative tendrils of want and need in a different direction.

“You go first,” Zach says. “I’ll follow in a few minutes.”

“I don’t care if people see us together. Half of them know anyway and the other half suspect.”

“I don’t care either, but I’d like time to settle down.”

“Settle – _oh_. Alright; I’ll leave you to it, Icy Bear.” Byron hears that joyous laughter again and another spasm of envy hits him, makes him gasp aloud just as the bedroom door shuts, and he tries to stifle himself again. But it was loud enough that Zach might have been alerted to his presence.

Byron’s first instinct is to hide. There’s nowhere, really, except the claw-footed bath tub, which has a draw-around curtain. He clambers into the tub, trying to minimize the noise, but the dull metallic bangs are not as muted as he hoped. He’s quietly pulling the shower curtain across when Zachary Quinto appears in the doorway, frowning first and then shocked as hell when he snaps the light on and sees Byron.

Byron manages not to shriek, but he jerks backwards instinctively. The curtain rail makes a popping noise and the sheet comes half-away in his clenching fingers.

Zach is holding the knife, and Byron can barely look away from it. It’s closed, but that doesn’t make any difference. Zach slumps backwards with a small huff of laughter, his other hand over his heart. “ _Byron?_ What in the hell are you—”

“Don’t come near me!” Byron says wildly. “I mean it!” He shrinks back, but that makes it worse. It’s just like _Psycho_ , and his mind starts up the refrain of screeching violins. He clutches the shower curtain around him like armor, still staring at the knife.

Zach glances down at his hand, following Byron’s eye-line, and hastily shoves the knife into his back pocket.

“Don’t hurt me!”

“I’m not going to hurt you. Come out of the tub.” Zach holds up his hands and takes a step backwards to the doorway.

“No!”

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

“No. You were mad at me before, out there. You were glaring at me.”

“I thought you were someone else. I’m sorry.” Byron stays where he is, shivering, and watching Zach warily. “Look, I don’t hurt people if they don’t want me to. You don’t want me to hurt you, so of course I won’t.”

He’s all dark eyes and hair, his mouth still red and warm from kissing Chris Pine, and Byron licks his lips. “What if I wanted you to?”

Zach leans back against the wall, hands behind his back, and gives him a small smile. “I still wouldn’t. You think Christopher would ever let me? He’d go nuts.”

“He lied to me.” Byron swipes an angry hand at his eyes. “He told me he was a Dom.” He can’t seem to stop the tears now, and it just makes him madder. “That—” he holds out a shaking hand, pointing to the door – “ _that_ is no Dominant. He’s a _liar_.”

A look of comprehension in Zach’s eyes, and then he shakes his head. “He didn’t lie to you Byron, not like you mean. He was trying to figure out some things for himself then. Sometimes…occasionally, he likes to top. Maybe he should have been more up-front about the specific nature of his experience, but he wasn’t actively lying to you or trying to trick you.”

Byron sinks down into the bath, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I was trying to be better. For him. But it was all just…” Fuck. Too many tears. He rubs his face furiously into his knees, pressing his eyes hard into the bones until he sees starbursts.

When he looks up, Zach has come closer.  He's leaning against the counter, looking down into the bath at Byron. But he’s not scary now; his face is sympathetic. “Chris told me about you, a while ago now,” he says casually. “But I do remember him telling me you said you were an experienced sub when you replied to his ad. Were _you_ lying?” Byron can’t answer him, but looks away, ashamed. “He also said you asked him to burn you with cigarettes.”

“Yeah, well. He wouldn’t do it.”

“Are you still asking people to do that?”

“Why? Do you want to?” He glares up at Zach, but the guy just gazes back, calm. “No. He told me I should be more careful, so I…I have been. I went to one of those meetings not long ago, a – a munch?” He stumbles over the term, thinking he might have it wrong, but Zach nods. “I went to a munch thing but everyone there, I don’t know.” He doesn’t want to tell Zachary Quinto that he was too scared to say much, too scared to talk to people even when they tried to engage him. And he made a total fool out of himself, too, with a hot Dom sitting at the head of the long table, who turned out to be straight. Byron only found that out after he’d knelt down next to his feet and asked if he’d consider taking on a new slave for training. That Dom was the first and only guy Byron had considered after meeting Chris, and that was mostly because he had bright blue eyes. He hadn’t laughed at Byron, not to his face anyway, but he hadn’t been very pleased, either.

Other people had laughed.

But Byron had told himself he didn’t care, because if they knew that Chris Pine had wanted him, they wouldn’t be laughing. Now, though…

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says to Zach, miserable. “I’m so fucking stupid; I mess up all the time. And I’m a freak. Even at that munch thing; all the subs were girls and I didn’t fit in. And nobody wants me. _Chris Pine_ turned up at my door and I screwed that up, because I asked so many questions that we never got a chance to _do_ anything, and then he wouldn’t reply to me online any more.”

“Chris was…I’m sure he was trying to do what he thought was best. He had a lot going on in his own life around then.”

“I tried to be good for him. I tried to, like, learn slave positions for presenting, and I tried to dress how I thought he’d like me to dress, and I stopped smoking. Cigarettes _and_ weed. I tried to be a better person for him, in case he came back one day.” Byron takes the Kleenex that Zach hands to him, pulled from the countertop holder. When he blows his nose the sound echoes around the bathroom. “But he didn’t come back. And even if he had, it wouldn’t have been like I thought, would it? He’s not like that. He’s not like _you_. And I’m just a stupid kid. A _freak_.”

Zach stands up straight, and Byron figures he’s going to leave, because who wouldn’t? Zach could be out there having fun, talking to interesting people, instead of stuck in a bathroom talking to some freak who’s been perving on him and his boyfriend.

But he doesn’t leave. He gracefully kneels next to the tub instead and reaches out towards him slowly, puts his warm fingers over Byron’s cold hand and gives a little squeeze. “You’re not a freak. It might feel like that for a while, but eventually you’ll find where you fit in.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I promise. Actually, I’ll do better than promise. Do you have a pen?”

Byron does. He always keeps a pen in his pocket, and a piece of paper, in case the muse hits while he’s out somewhere. He shifts around in the bath, trying to get into his pocket, until Zach says, “Why don’t you come out of there? It’ll make things easier.” Zach stands in one lovely, fluid movement and offers his hand to Byron, who takes it, wide-eyed.

Once he’s out of the tub, Byron shoves his hand deep into his jeans pocket and pulls out a chewed-up pen. It makes Byron self-conscious, but Zach doesn’t seem to notice. Zach takes the paper Byron hands him as well, smoothing it out on the bathroom counter. “I’m going to give you a name and a number to call, okay? Give this guy a call, and you can set up a meeting with him. He’ll be able to help you.”

“Is he a Dom?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“Because he’s like you, and he’ll be able to introduce you to people, and tell you who’s safe and who’s not, and – look, just call him. Trust me. He’s much more patient than I am, and he’s a nice guy, you’ll like him. You look like you could use a friend.” Zach checks his iPhone and then starts scribbling on the paper Byron gives him, a cell number and a name – Nick.

Byron holds it in both hands to read it, making sure he understands Zach’s handwriting. He looks up at Zachary Quinto, who’s about a head taller than him, and decides to take a chance. “You could be my friend.”

Zach smiles, but shakes his head. “I’m not the kind of friend you need right now.”

“Well…what about Chris?” Byron asks, emboldened. “If he’s like me—”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d prefer that not to happen.” It’s the first time Zach has sounded remotely Dom-like since they’ve started speaking, and Byron feels his heart flutter.

He nods. “I get it. You don’t want your sub getting confused about his role.”

Zach gives him a strange look, but doesn’t say anything except, “Call Nick. Promise me.” He reaches out a hand and briefly squeezes Byron’s wrist. _How could I ever have thought he was a sub?_ Byron wonders. _His eyes are so commanding._

“I promise. I promise, Sir.”

Zach pulls his hand back and shoves it deep into his pocket. Byron wonders if it’s because he feels like he might be overcome with passion if he keeps stroking his wrist.

“Listen,” Zach says. “You need to find your own partner. Don’t – don’t go building me up in your head like you did with Chris. You need to find someone right for _you_ , and that person is not me.”

“I understand, Sir.”

“Jesus Christ,” Zach mutters, but then laughs. “Alright, little fledgling. Time to throw you out of the nest.” He motions with his arm, and Byron walks out of the bathroom, pauses at the door.

“You should go first,” he says. “Si—”

“Yeah, good idea,” Zach says quickly, and pulls the door open to check outside. “Okay. Clear. Byron – I hate to ask, but you didn’t happen to take any pictures with your phone or anything, did you?”

“Omigod _no_.” Byron is horrified. “I didn’t even tell anyone about Chris, after that one time. I wanted to, so bad. Like, _really_ bad. But it didn’t feel right, because it was private. And I would _never_ take pictures of him, or you, Sir. That would be—”

“Alright. I trust you. Thank you.”

And then Zach is gone, and Byron is left with the scrap of paper and a phone number in spiky, generous handwriting. The moon in the window is smaller now, but less sickly-looking. The light is pure, silver instead of yellow.

Byron fixes the image in his memory for a few minutes before leaving the room, because he’s totally writing a poem about tonight when he gets home.

 

  
 **ii) An Interlude**

As soon as they get inside Zach’s house, Chris pulls at his top, and throws it towards the sofa, ignoring Zach’s slightly pained look when it falls short and flutters to the floor. “Noah and Harold are with Joe, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“So no one will chew my shirt!”

“You could at least—”

“Fine, fine.” He darts to pick it up from the floor and slings it over the back of a sofa chair. “All tidy. Now come on. Come and do bad things to me.” He’s rushing it because he’s nervous. Zach is going to scare him. Zach is going to _cut_ him. Chris shivers.

But Zach takes his shoulders, stopping him. “Hang on. I want to do things a little differently.”

“You don’t want me to take my clothes off?” Chris gives a puzzled frown. That’s new.

“Why don’t we both go get into bed? There’s something I want to talk over first.”

 _We’ve negotiated this already. There’s practically fine print about it_ , Chris thinks, but he lets Zach lead him by the hand to the bedroom, where they undress to underwear. Zach maneuvers Chris on to his back and pulls the covers up over him tightly, before propping himself up on one elbow.

“Are you comfortable?” Zach asks him. Chris nods. “So. That Byron kid.”

“That was embarrassing,” Chris says idly. He’s caught up in staring at Zach’s mouth, wondering if he’ll bite tonight. Break skin like last time. Going back to the doctor wouldn’t be _quite_ so bad this time, now that he knows her better.

“More so than you realize. He was in the en suite of that room we were in at the party.”

Chris stares at him, horrified. “Please tell me this is some awful, cruel joke you’re making. This is just you being a sadist, right?”

Zach chuckles. “’Fraid not. Hey, don’t worry about it,” he says, as Chris groans and slowly slides down further in the bed, pulling the covers over his head. “Really. It’s all fine. It’s not like either of us had our junk out or anything. And he didn’t take any pictures.”

“That’s not the point!” Chris snaps, popping his head back out again. “I was all…and _you_ were…oh _fuck_. Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“I didn’t know until after you’d gone. Jesus, I wouldn’t…I mean, you _know_ I wouldn’t spring a surprise voyeur on you!” Zach sounds half offended and half amused.

Chris pulls the covers over his face again, but Zach snuggles underneath with him. He arranges the sheet over them so it feels like they have extra privacy, face-to-face in a white linen cave. Chris grimaces, replaying their intimate words and actions. “I never wanted anyone to see me like that.”

“I didn’t think you’d be _this_ upset,” Zach says, concerned. “I thought you’d be a little embarrassed. Because I mean, there was that time at the club when we—”

“ _Totally_ different.”

“Okay.”

“And _not helping_ , Zach.”

“Sorry. I’m not crazy about the whole incident either, you know.”

Chris asks question after question about Byron until Zach can’t answer them any more, and sighs. “Christopher, I have no idea what he thought. Not psychic, here. But from what he said…he thought you were lying to him, before. So I guess he felt betrayed there for a moment.”

Now that the first flush of mortification is fading, Chris feels bad. Really bad. He isn’t in the business of crushing dreams, even outlandish dreams, and one look at Byron’s shining eyes and adoring smile when he appeared out of the crowd told Chris that he was the object of Byron’s fantasies. Very _specific_ fantasies. “Damn it, that poor kid. I never meant to make him feel…gah. And poor _me_. I don’t like people seeing me like that,” he says again. “Not without me knowing, anyway. Not without some kind of control over the situation.”

Zach pushes him down onto his back and nibbles along his clavicle. “But you’re gorgeous like that. Why does it bother you so much?”

Chris closes his eyes and concentrates on the feel of Zach’s lips, blunt teeth gently pinching at his skin. It’s easy for Zach. Zach has not had to suddenly readjust his understanding of his own sexuality; he’s been certain of it from a much younger age. And Zach doesn’t have to deal with the idea that submission and masculinity don’t go hand in hand in people’s minds.

Chris is comfortable with himself, most of the time. Happy. But every now and then he’s struck with doubt, uncertainty, and his sense of self takes a hit to the gut. _Real men aren’t submissive._ It doesn’t matter how much he tells himself that it’s sexist to think only of women as naturally submissive (totally not true, anyway, and he’s seen the unnerving proof with his own eyes now that he and Zach have a new circle of kinky friends). It doesn’t matter how much he _likes_ being hurt, held down, humiliated. It doesn’t matter how much he talks it out in therapy and reads sex-positive books and talks to other guys who like the same stuff. Once in a while, out of the blue, he’s overcome by self-loathing. He’s seen Zach feel that too, not often, and not for a while now, but Chris wonders if it’s the same kind of feeling.

But then, Zach doesn’t have to reassess his whole idea of manhood and reframe it in some way that isn’t black and white, positive and negative, because Zach _is_ active, aggressive, assertive. Zach fucks him; he doesn’t fuck Zach – not without a series of heavy boundaries and discussions, anyway.

And Zach was right at the party. Chris is getting antsy about things.

“Anyway,” Zach is saying, “I gave him Nick’s phone number. I figured that was the best thing to do. Nick can do some networking with him, make sure he’s safe. Because I have to say, Byron is a hot piece of ass with stunning levels of naïveté. Someone is going to totally fuck him over if he doesn’t get a clue.”

“Yeah. Nick – that was a good idea. You think Byron was hot?”

“Totally, in that twinky way. You have good taste.”

Chris has to smile. “You include yourself in my good taste?”

“Hell, yes.” Zach props himself up on an elbow, the sheet still over them. The light shining through it makes everything seem bright and clear. Zach traces a finger over Chris’s mouth. “Also I was thinking…do you still need all those books you bought when you were researching stuff?”

Chris feels his cheeks color up a little. “You mean my extensive Gay, Bi or Kinky collection? I was thinking of donating it to the Smithsonian as a relic of Early Whitelaw History. So no, I don’t need them. Practice has overtaken theory. Why?”

“I thought we could give them to Byron, if you didn’t want them any more, and if you think they helped. Just the kink ones. He seemed pretty clear on his sexual preferences.”

Chris still feels like his privacy has been invaded, but it sounds like it really was an accident. And Byron seems like a nice kid. Confused, like Chris was when he first started out. Like he still is sometimes, although it’s getting better. “Okay. That’s a good idea. We can give them to Nick to pass on.”

“ _If_ Byron calls him. But I think he will. You know, he wondered if we could be friends with him. I told him it wasn’t really appropriate.”

“ _God_ , no.”

“He thought it was because I wanted you to remember your place.” Zach gives a laugh.

“Don’t you?” Chris tries not to sound bitter, or annoyed, but Zach is picking up on the undercurrent.

“You don’t have a place. Not on your knees and not on a pedestal, either. We’re equals. Just two guys trying to make things work between us.”

Yeah. When Zach says stuff like that, all the bad feelings, all the uncertainty falls away, and Chris is reminded of why they do all that stuff in the first place.

“It feels good,” he says, and pulls Zach down to kiss him fiercely. “Come on, then,” he says, afterwards. “Scare me. Cut me. Do terrible things to me. All this waiting is making me jumpy.”

“Nah. Not tonight.”

“But—”

“Pine, there is no way in hell I’m going to link your bad feelings about tonight to that knife. I like you scared when you see it, but not horrified or upset. Now come on,” Zach says, pulling the sheet off them both and sitting up against the bed head. He holds out his arms, and when Chris does nothing but give him a baleful look, pulls at him. “You’re like a dead weight,” he complains, and finally Chris gets up, grumbling. “Come on, on top of me – no, move your legs. Come _on_ , help me help you.”

Chris ends up sitting on top of Zach, face to face, arms slung around his neck. “What are you doing?”

“Making you feel good. Oh, you don’t believe me? You’re feeling too raw for anything intense right now.” Zach pulls him down to kiss at his nose, over his cheeks and eyelids until Chris starts to relax.

“Yeah,” he says. “I feel…exposed.” Their cocks are nestled together, his soft and slumping over Zach’s, which is hard and getting harder. The sight makes his own dick give a twitch of interest.

“I have this fantasy,” Zach purrs, biting at Chris’s bottom lip.

“What?” Chris is expecting pain, fear, maybe blood.

“I think about sucking you while you’re still soft like this and feeling you get hard in my mouth, filling out against my tongue. I rarely get to do that, though – you get hard so fast. It’s very flattering, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something satisfying about feeling you grow in my mouth like that.”

“You could try now,” Chris suggests immediately.

“Nope. You’re already halfway there.” They both look down again and Chris grins.

“Sorry,” he says. “You’re just too hot. Blame my good taste in men.”

Zach kisses him for a while, slowly, drawing it out until Chris feels like they’ve built a furnace between them, like Zach’s fingers are singeing his skin where he touches, drawing trails of fire on his forearms when he runs his nails down the muscles. “Get up for a bit, kneel over me,” Zach says at last, and Chris obeys. The cool lube against his asshole is a shock after feeling so warm, but Zach just swallows Chris’s grunt of surprise and pushes a gentle finger inside him.

 _Everything_ is gentle. It’s the complete antithesis of what they’d planned, but Chris is grateful for it. Zach is careful and slow, opening him up with methodical fingers far beyond what Chris thinks is necessary, but for once he’s not impatient. The extra care Zach takes is making him feel better. Less vulnerable. Cherished.

Zach even lets him stay on top this time. Chris can count on one hand the number of times Zach has positioned him on top and let him control the speed and depth of their fucking. Chris breathes out, deep and slow, as Zach pushes into him, and the feeling of fullness is both physical and mental.

“Thank you,” he says, when it becomes clear that Zach is letting him set his own pace, but Zach just kisses him again. Chris knows what he’s doing. They both know. Zach’s hand jerks him, long, unhurried strokes that build and build, winding Chris tight like a Jack-in-the-box.

When he’s close, he grabs at Zach’s hand, stopping it. “You first,” he says.

“Watch,” Zach says, palming Chris’s face and making him focus. “Watch me.” Chris grabs at his shoulders and squeezes down on Zach’s cock, twisting his hips, and watches. He watches what it does to Zach, watches the brown eyes go wide and then flutter shut, the color washing across his cheeks, the way his mouth opens automatically, lips drawing back, teeth clashing together on nothing. Chris can still feel Zach’s cock pulsing inside him, and after a second Zach starts jacking him again, breathing heavily, his forehead sticky against the side of Chris’s neck.

This time he bites. When Chris shoots, spurting over both of them because they’re pressed up close together, Zach bites into his shoulder with a sound of relief, and Chris finds himself laughing.

The one positive about what Chris has come to think of as ‘normal’ sex between them – as opposed to play – is that the clean-up time and aftercare are much, much quicker. They lie wrapped up in each other, drowsy, and Zach brings up Byron again.

“He reminded me of you, just a little. The kind of things you used to say in the beginning.”

“Fuck you,” Chris says, squirming, and Zach chuckles. “I bet you were just as clueless when you started out.”

Zach stops laughing, bites his lips. “I was awful.”

“Mad, bad and dangerous to know, huh? Just like Lord Byron.”

“Something like that.” Zach looks uncomfortable. “That’s a very kind way of putting it, though.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it sometime. Tell me your story.”

“I will. Sometime.”

They stop talking, sleep soundly. And in the morning when he wakes, Chris doesn’t immediately shrug off Zach’s long limbs wrapped around him, or remove the hot, clingy fingers from his wrist like he usually does.

Because this morning it doesn’t make him feel claustrophobic. This morning it makes him feel secure.

 

 

**iii) A Corey Story**

“We like him.” Corey is trying out the phrase on his tongue, tasting the words. This is not a sentence he’s used to saying when it comes to Zachary Quinto’s boyfriends, so he’s throwing it out there to see if it sticks.

“We do.” Neal sounds just as surprised.

“I’m suspicious. Chris Pine, from everything we’ve seen, is neither annoying nor dull. He’s actually pleasant to spend time with. What, therefore, does our dear Zachary see in him?” Corey rolls over on the couch, and fixes Neal with a frown.

“It’s a mystery,” Neal agrees.

“We won’t have anything to gossip about anymore, if he’s suddenly stopped dating losers.”

“We’ll have to find a new topic.” Neal brings them both a Coke from the kitchen and they settle to ruminate some more. “I’m not sure if I can get used to it.”

“You’ll have to, because Chris is going to be sticking around for a while. Even if they break up—”

“Don’t jinx it!’

Corey raps on the table three times. Usually he does it on Neal’s head, but Neal is too far away.

“Unjinxed,” he announces. “I just meant, Zach’s tied in to do more _Trek_ with him, so whatever else happens, we’ll be seeing a lot of him over the next decade.”

“Mmmmm.” It’s a drawn-out, ponderous sound, as though Neal is still trying to make up his mind whether to be happy about it or worry about another potential Adam Situation.

Corey can’t help; he hasn’t made up his own mind yet.

They suck on their Cokes, and Corey wonders how much probing he can get away with before Trix puts a stop to it. She’s back in LA right now, so it seems like prime prying time, although she’ll find out eventually. She has a sixth sense about that kind of thing, like a little angel on his shoulder begging him to be good and stay out of things that don’t concern him.

“We should ask Chris over some time,” he suggests. “Get to know him better.”

Because he really likes Chris, and he wants to make sure things go smoothly for him. From time to time Corey worries about Zach, about the predilections that he’s always tried to cover up from his close friends, but not so well that Corey doesn’t have a pretty good idea of what’s going on.

Corey is a live-and-let-live kind of guy, so it’s never been of much interest to him – he teased Zach precisely once about it back in college when he caught him sneaking in one very early morning, dressed in leather and motherfucking _chains_ , which was hardly something Corey could pass up without comment. Zach snarled something extremely uncalled for back, and then wouldn’t speak to him for a week, until Neal smoothed things over between them and Zach offered a sheepish apology. And Corey learned not to joke about Zach’s sex life.

Chris Pine, on the other hand, with his big blue eyes and charming smile, doesn’t exactly seem like the type to – well, whatever it is that Zach does. (Corey has _definitely_ never been interested in the mechanics.) Despite the fact that Chris Pine has probably had a lot more sex than Corey Moosa ever has, he seems innocent and… _breakable_. He’s nothing like the parade of boys they’ve had to sit through before, all too knowing and overtly sexual until it became _torture_ not to say something mocking to Zach. It was only ever Neal’s slight frown and shake of the head that made Corey bite his tongue around those types.

Chris Pine does not fit that mold _at all_ , and Zach is really obviously head over heels, which is another concern. Zach and love don’t exactly go hand-in-hand, Corey has noticed over the years. Zach takes everything to heart in a way Corey’s never seen before; every break-up shatters him, despite the length of time they take – six days or six months. Then there’s the fact that Corey heartily approves of Chris, so he just wants to make sure things don’t go off the rails. It’s completely altruistic, he insists to the tiny imaginary Trix on his shoulder.

  
***

  
In the end, it all works out perfectly, and Corey takes it as a benediction from the Universe that poking his nose in was the right thing to do. Zach can’t make it for lunch, but Chris comes, looking back and forth nervously between Corey and Neal until he’s got two beers in him, and settles over the course of the afternoon. Corey can picture him fitting in with their social group in a way that none of Zach’s previous boyfriends ever have, or could.

They’re pretty much a package deal, Corey and Neal and Zach – Trix and Ashley have always accepted that and it’s worked out well. But Zach’s boys, they never quite gelled. Corey even had a serious conversation with Neal once about whether they were being homophobes; whether _that_ was the reason none of Zach’s partners ever made the grade. But right after that conversation, the next boy wouldn’t even talk to them unless Zach was around, so Corey figured it was less homophobia and more Zach’s excruciatingly poor taste in men.

Chris Pine, on the other hand, even helps take out the recycling, which is Corey’s least favorite job, but one that he’s got in the habit of doing since Trix and Zach started comparing notes on Corey’s contribution to global warming.

It’s as Chris is helping to lift the heavy lid of the recycling bin that Corey sees him wince. Chris unconsciously puts a hand to his chest and pats it delicately afterwards, and Corey, not quite knowing where he should look, stares up at the gray sky and babbles about catching up in LA until Chris looks comfortable again.

After Chris has gone, and Neal has half-woken from his very loud nap, Corey decides it warrants a conversation. “You know much about what Zach does?” he asks, shoving Neal’s feet off the sofa arm and onto the floor with a satisfying clumpy noise. It has the desired effect: Neal comes to.

He grunts, yawns, and then says, “I fucking should, I’m his business partner.”

“I mean, you know. The kink stuff.”

“No, and I don’t want to,” Neal replies, reaching for his long-forgotten, now-flat beer. He swishes a mouthful around his teeth and makes a face; swallows hurriedly. “And neither should you. You know he’s private about that.”

“Man, seriously, I’m kind of worried.”

“About?”

“Chris. And Zach.”

Neal gives a loud groan. “You need to get laid more often, Moosa. Maybe then you’ll worry less about what other people are doing in bed.”

“I get laid plenty. And that’s not the point – we never _did_ find out why Adam dumped Zach,” Corey insists.

“I don’t care,” Neal says bluntly. “That was the best thing that could have happened. Adam was _such_ a—”

“Yeah, yeah. But Zach, he just…it’s like he’s _cursed_.” Corey thinks it over. “Do you think he’s cursed?”

“I think he’s a hot, famous millionaire who likes kinky stuff and who will always have trouble finding someone genuine,” Neal says, for once sincere. “Both because he’s a hot, famous millionaire who likes kinky stuff _and_ because he’s kind of dumb about relationships. Can’t you just be happy for him? At least Chris is a good match on the hot-famous-millionaire end.”

“You sound like a dowager arranging a marriage. And I _am_ happy for him. That’s why I’m worried.”

But Neal won’t discuss it any further, says that gossiping is immature and they should cut it out, especially now that Zach seems settled with someone like Chris. Corey wonders uncharitably whether Ashley has put her foot down on the gossip, but he lets the matter drop. For now.

  
***

  
The only person Corey ever tells about that day he went to see Chris is Trixze, because he’s bound by honor (and Head Slap) not to tell Zach, and he knows he can’t tell Neal either, because Neal will tell Zach, and then Chris will know he’s spilled.

But Trix is different. Besides, he was so upset when he got home that she immediately demanded to know what the hell was going on. So Trix was the only one who ever heard what it was like to see Chris that way, so depleted. “Fuzzy round the edges,” was the way Corey described it to her, like Chris had lost that golden glow that lit him up on the red carpet and drew people to him.

It was bad enough seeing Chris like that in the doorway, but once he got into the apartment, it was worse. A sea of mess; dirty mugs and food-crusted plastic instant-meal trays stacked haphazardly on the coffee table and even the sofa. There were towels on the floor and clothes kicked into a mound in the corner, or hanging on things like Chris had just thrown them anywhere, uninterested. Everything smelled kind of…musty. Chris gave him one challenging look when Corey walked in, like he was daring Corey to say anything.

So Corey just removed a dirty coffee cup from the sofa cushion and sat on it, waited for Chris to sit too, and acted like everything was normal.

He was never so grateful in his life for Trix, who listened to him talk about how confronting it was, and how eerie, and how worried he was about Chris. “And I can’t tell Zach. I can’t tell him to pull his fucking finger out and stop being such an asshole about it.”

He kept his lips sealed, even when Zach abandoned his pretense of dispassionate curiosity and begged to know how Chris was doing. And that caused another issue between them, the likes of which had not been seen since that Leather and Chains incident in college.

Things righted themselves, eventually. Zach and Chris got back together, and Corey was friends with both of them, and life went on.

But Corey hasn’t forgotten seeing Chris like that.

Everything seems fine, and everyone is happy, and if Corey intercepts a strange look between Zach and Chris from time to time, he’s more likely to chalk it up to the Mysterious World of Gay Sex than anything else. Zach doesn’t talk about kink, and Corey doesn’t ask, until one day when he borrows a hoodie from Zach and finds a knife in the pocket.

“Uh, okay?” Corey says, holding it up. Zach goes rigid and then suspiciously relaxed, like he’s deliberately releasing the tension from each muscle cluster to _appear_ relaxed. “This is some serious hardware, man.”

“It’s legal.”

“It’s _legal_? That’s your response?”

Zach shrugs, tries to play it off, but his neck is blotched with red and white. “Sure. If it’s legal, it’s all good.”

“Vague, man. What’s it for? You don’t strike me as a cutter.” He flicks it open and shut again.

If it’s possible, Zach looks even more relaxed and even more splotchy. He gives a tight smile. “For a role. I bought it for a role.”

“What role?”

“Jesus Christ, Moosa, what does it matter?” Zach snaps, and grabs for it.

Corey pulls it out of reach. “Wow, excuse me for taking an interest in your career,” Corey grins. “Come on, Q-tip, why so jumpy?”

“Just give it to me.”

Zach isn’t playing around, and the look on his face doesn’t brook anymore teasing. “Settle, petal,” Corey says, and holds it out for him. Zach snatches it and disappears into his bedroom. When he reappears, he’s calm and good-humored again, or acts like it anyway.

But it sticks in Corey’s mind. It takes a couple of days to place Zach’s tone and expression, but it finally comes back to him – Leather and Chains. It worries him.

It worries him even more when he visits Chris to watch a Lakers game, and the same knife is lying on the hallway table next to the bowl for keys. He stops and stares at it, and then at Chris.

Chris goes pink. “Sorry,” he says, and Corey wonders why he’s apologizing, of all things. It’s no more appropriate than Zach’s reaction, and suddenly Corey is _afraid_. Afraid of what might be going on, and what it might mean.

Chris grabs the knife and pushes it behind the bowl, but then thinks better of it and pockets it.

“For a role, right?” Corey asks.

Chris just nods. They stand awkwardly, looking at each other, waiting for the other to make a move, say something, break the tension.

“I brought beer,” Corey says, holding up a six-pack. “You got the chips and dip?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna be extra-masculine and order pizza?”

Chris nods again, too hard.

It becomes a tradition over the next few weeks: watching the game together, just Corey and Chris without Zach or Trix or Neal or anyone, and Corey thinks they’re becoming better friends. They order meatlovers pizza each time (another benefit of not having Zach there: no lectures on the dangers of processed meats) and drink several beers. And Corey keeps an eye on Chris; starts to notice when he wears a bandana around his wrist, or a cardigan with long sleeves despite the heat of summer, or buttons his shirt up to the neck.

One afternoon at Corey’s place, after the game finishes, Chris suggests they go down to the local courts and shoot some hoops. Corey agrees, although he’s never been great at sinking anything and Chris has a height advantage. They’re both tipsy enough to think it’s a great idea, even though Chris’s shots bounce inevitably off the ring, and Corey’s are more likely to hit Chris than the backboard.

“Sorry, man, I _swear_ I’m not actually aiming at you,” he grins after the third near-miss.

Chris plucks his wet tee away from his shoulder, balancing the ball in the other hand. He refused to take his top off, even though the asphalt court is retaining a lot of warmth from the sunny day, and Chris looks overheated. He flicks the ball back at Corey hard, and hits him square in the chest. Corey clutches the ball, laughing.

Chris says, “Either you’re a really bad shot or…”

“Or I just like to see you in pain,” Corey agrees. “Nah, definitely the former. Ask Zach and Neal. Hell, ask anyone. I’m about as coordinated as…something really uncoordinated. Fuck, I think I’m more drunk than I thought.” The fact that it’s so hard to say is another indicator.

But Corey stops chuckling to himself when he sees Chris staring at him with a guarded expression. “What?” Corey asks.

Chris gives him a searching look and then shrugs. “Nothing. I just thought…It’s getting late, I should get going.”

“Did I say something wrong? I’m always saying _something_ wrong.”

“Forget it. I just have an early call.” Chris is walking towards where they’ve thrown a couple of water bottles and Corey’s shirt and keys. He takes a long swig from the bottle, keeping his back to Corey more than strictly necessary.

Corey jogs up and pulls his shirt back on. “You should feel free to tell me to fuck off, but—”

“Corey,” Chris says calmly, “fuck off.”

“Oh. Okay.” Jeez, he didn’t really _mean_ it.

They walk back to Corey’s apartment in silence, and Chris looks like he’s ready to take off in his car as soon as they reach it, but after he pats his pocket for his keys, he sighs quietly.

“Yeah, you’ll have to risk your life entering my hovel one more time,” Corey says, fishing out his own keys. “Come on up.”

Chris grabs his keys and wallet from the coffee table and says an abrupt, “Bye,” but Corey stands in front of the door with his arms folded. He’s pretty sure Chris Pine could bench press two of him, but Corey is determined.

“Nuh-uh,” he says. “We need to have a chat.”

Chris gives him an incredulous look. “Moosa—”

“Humor me. Come on, man. I just need to put my mind at ease.”

“Did you not hear me down at the courts? Fuck. Off.”

“I’m withdrawing that particular offer. You know, no one’s ever actually taken me up on it before?”

“Really,” Chris says flatly. “You surprise me.”

But Corey smiles. Chris Pine might have a blinding, golden-boy smile that makes hearts flutter and knees weak, but Corey’s a trained actor too, and he knows his strengths. He knows that there are very few people who can resist his friendly, funny-looking face, especially when he smiles. And what do you know, Chris Pine ain’t one of them either.

“Fine,” Chris mumbles, and swivels to head back to the sofa.

“You think I’m nosy,” Corey says, still smiling, even though it’s hard to keep up under Chris’s steely glare. “You _think_ I’m nosy, but I’m just trying to be a good friend.”

“I’ll tell you this much, Moosa, you’re possibly the most interested person on the planet in my personal life.”

“Dunno about that. Neal is curious too, although he hides it better. I’m the only one with the balls to actually ask about it.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“See, that’s where I think you’re wrong.” Corey settles back into the cushions and swipes a hand over his still-sweaty face. “We’re friends, and part of the job description is to look out for each other.”

“Well, I’m fine, so you’ve done your duty.” He makes to stand up again, but Corey frowns at him until he sits again with a huffy sigh.

“We mess with each other, me and Neal and Zach. Because that’s just how we are. And I mess with you, too, but if you don’t like it, I’ll stop it. Seriously. I’m starting to second-guess the shit I say, which I hate having to do, because I’m not very smart and I’m pretty sure I’ll say stupid shit anyway.”

Chris looks at his knees. “Nah, man, it’s cool. I don’t mind. I like it.”

“Alright. So how come you get so jumpy sometimes? When we joke around about—”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Corey, come on. You don’t want to know about this stuff. Trust me.”

Corey sits forward in the chair. “Oh, dude. You’re really gonna make me go there, aren’t you? Fuck, this’ll make me feel guilty for days, but okay.” Chris gives him a startled glance. “After you and Zach broke up—”

“No,” Chris says quickly. “I don’t want to hear about that.”

“After you and Zach broke up,” Corey continues, louder, “who was the awesome, handsome, talented guy who came around to see you and tried to cheer you up? Me, that’s who. Corey Moosa, Friend Extraordinaire. And who never said a word to Zach about the state you were in, because you asked him not to? Me. Corey Moosa.”

He sees Chris’s mouth give a brief quirk.

“And who had to live with the extreme remorse caused by said silence?”

“You, I’m guessing.”

“You guess right. So the way I see it, we have a connection. Not a sexy gay-loving connection, much to my chagrin, but nevertheless: a connection.” It’s the best way. Get Chris laughing, and he might let down the barriers a little. Corey hopes so, anyway. “I want you to feel like you can tell your Uncle Corey anything.”

“Uncle Corey?” Chris snorts. “Not really feeling that.”

“Fine, be that way. Guardian angel, then.”

Chris shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I’d ask where your halo is but I suspect the answer would be something uncomfortable to do with your genitalia.”

“You know me too well,” Corey concedes. “So here’s the thing. Your relationship – it’s okay, right?”

“Sure.” Chris frowns, confused.

“I mean, it’s not something I should be worrying about?”

“We’re fine.”

“Okay, you’re not reading my _subtle undertones_ here. I’m not asking about you and Zach being fine, I’m asking whether there’s anything I should be _worried_ about.” Chris still looks blank. “Like, for example, why didn’t you want to take your shirt off at the courts?”

Chris swallows. “I don’t really want to—”

“Uh, yeah, I don’t really want to either, buddy. I don’t really want to ask you if you’re involved in a violent relationship, or whether your boyfriend is hitting you or anything like that – I don’t really want to ask you anything that makes it seem like I’m thinking bad thoughts about Zach, because he’s my best friend. He’s my best friend and I don’t _want_ to think anything like that about him, because it would break my fucking heart. But I have to ask, because what kind of human being would I be if I didn’t ask?” _A less nosy one_ , Trix would say, but she would understand. “You guys have a _knife_ lying around that you both get all weird and jumpy over, and you…I’m not blind. You have bruises on you sometimes.”

Chris has been getting paler as Corey speaks, and at the last words, his hands jerk to his tee collar instinctively, twist it up higher. “No, I don’t.”

“Pine,” Corey says gently, “I’ve seen your wrists sometimes when they have fucking _fingerprints_ on them. And once you had some kind of hickey that looked like a vampire had been gnawing on your neck. And another time…” Actually, though, Corey doesn’t want to mention the other things he’s seen, because he has no words to describe some of them beyond _what the fuck_. “I know Zach’s into…stuff. But _that_ stuff? It made me start thinking, and then start worrying. So just – I don’t want details, trust me – just tell me you’re okay and make me believe you and I’ll drop it.”

Chris’s troubled expression is not helping, but Corey gives him time. The last thing he wants is to push Chris into anything, or to risk some kind of misunderstanding.

“I am not involved in an abusive relationship,” Chris says at last. “But I think you know what Zach’s like, so…I can’t tell you honestly that I’m not involved in a violent relationship, depending on how you define violence. But everything is consensual. And I’m okay.”

Corey takes some time processing the information, keeps the smile on his face while he does. But the silence becomes too much for Chris.

“I didn’t used to be okay,” he admits. “Before. Things were different, and it wasn’t so great at times. I don’t mean that Zach used to…Just, we kind of messed things up, both of us.”

“Is that why you broke up?”

“Yeah.”

“But you worked it out?”

Chris fidgets. Corey waits, even though the encouraging smile seems to be freezing on his face and making his muscles ache.

“I don’t want to say too much, because Zach likes to be private about it and frankly, so do I. But I have people to talk to now, about what it is we do. I didn’t before, but now I do, and Zach and I have worked out a really good balance.”

To his surprise, Corey feels hurt. “You could have talked to _me_ ,” he says. “You still can. I know everyone thinks I’m just some clown who makes dumb jokes all the time and sticks my nose into everyone else’s business, but that’s just because I _care_. About Zach and about you. And you of all people should know you can trust me when it counts.”

Chris looks up in consternation. “I _do_ know that. But this stuff, it’s not the normal relationship bullshit that goes on, and sometimes it’s difficult for me to talk about it. And you and Neal…You have to admit, you guys take great delight in mocking Zach’s past, um.”

“Conquests?”

“Yes.”

Unexpectedly upset, Corey gets up and grabs them each a fresh bottle of water from the kitchen. He’s still half-drunk and feeling dehydrated after the courts, so maybe that’s why he’s going all emo over this. “But you know we don’t talk about you that way, right?” he asks quietly, while Chris is drinking.

Chris pants as he lowers the bottle, half-empty. He shakes his head while he catches his breath. “Nope. I don’t know.”

“Well, now you do.” Corey feels ashamed of himself. “Is that why you never talked to me?” But Chris just shrugs. “Fuck. Pine – I’m sorry. Really. We shouldn’t have talked like that in front of you. Hell, at _all_. And I wish you could trust me enough to talk about things if you need to, because I do—” He breaks off and swallows, but he’s got to say it even if Chris teases him about it for the next decade. “I do care about you.”

Chris looks up at him with a half-smile. “I know. You have a big gay crush on me.”

“I’ll cut that out. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Jeez, Moosa, lighten up!” Chris grins. “You mess around with me because you like me. It’s how you show me that you care. I know that.” He stands up, ready to go. “And listen – it’s the same with Zach. What he does, he does to show me that he cares.”

Corey follows him to the door, feeling confused but happier. “So the knife – you know what, never mind. I get the feeling I’m out of my depth here.”

Chris gives him a wicked look, and raises an eyebrow. “Actually, if you have any tips on how to stop fingernail scratches from itching like crazy while they heal up, I’m all ears.”

Corey cringes. “I do not. And I didn’t need to hear that.”

“Nope, you didn’t.” Chris is chuckling now. “I’ll catch you next week, okay? My place. I’ll make sure all the props are out of sight this time.”

Corey grabs his arm as he turns to exit. “But if you ever do want to talk about that stuff,” he says bravely, “I’ll listen. And I won’t tell Zach anything.”

Chris pats his hand. “Thanks, man. I don’t think I’ll ever need to take you up on it, but thanks.”

“And – please don’t tell Zach I thought he was beating on you.”

“Just a misunderstanding. Go polish your halo, Moosa. Groom your wings.”

Corey gives some serious thought, after Chris has gone, to hanging up his halo for good. But hell, everyone needs a Guardian Angel. Including Corey, who is beginning to wonder exactly what Trix will say when she finds out about all this.

 

 

 **iv) Chris and Zach**  
  
The knife is luminous, glossy black gleaming against the white pillow case. The blade is polished and lustrous, hiding snug inside the handle now, but Chris has seen Zach flicking it open and shut for the past few days, and shining it carefully with soft cloths. So he knows what the blade looks like, the quiet sheen of it. The sight of it is seared into his brain.

And Zach likes to watch him watching the knife, and so there it is, inches away from his nose on the other pillow, while Zach gives him a slow back shoulder massage and Chris tries to keep his heartbeat steady.

It’s been a month since the housewarming party and a week since his difficult conversation with Corey, and Chris was just settling back into his comfort zone when Zach raised the idea of trying out the knife again. “No parties beforehand,” he said. “Just you and me and the knife.” Chris, heart in his mouth, had agreed.

Zach has been bringing it out like this and putting it somewhere in view for a while now. He asked Chris ages ago about whether he could do that, if it was okay to do it out of the blue, and Chris had agreed with a niggling sense of irritation that Zach was so into negotiation these days that _nothing_ would be a surprise any more.

That was absolutely not the case. The knife turned up unexpectedly, just sitting there on the bedside table or on the coffee table in the lounge, or in Zach’s car once when he asked Chris to get something out of the glove compartment for him, and Chris had to sit with it in his hand the rest of the way to the restaurant, his head buzzing, and Zach silent but satisfied beside him.

Over the last month, it’s been appearing with increasing regularity. In the bathroom. On the side table in Chris’s hallway – and Zach wasn’t even _there_ , just the knife, and Zach strolled in ten minutes later like nothing had happened. He left it there, too, on the way out and then Corey had seen it.

A few days ago, the knife turned up in his sock drawer, which even Chris had to laugh at. The night before last it appeared on Chris’s kitchen counter out of nowhere, just sitting there when he went to make them haphazard subs (hoagies, Zach insisted on calling them, home-state pride suddenly surfacing) for dinner while they watched a Pirates game on TV. Chris had stopped and stared at it, and when he turned, there was Zach in the doorway, arranged in a carefully casual manner with a hand in his pocket and one arm leaning up against the frame.

“The…” was all Chris could say, and gestured behind himself.

“Yes?”

He drew a few breaths, trying to tame his fear response, even while Zach studied his face curiously. “You put it places. But you never cut me with it. Don’t you think about that? Don’t you want to?”

“Of course.” Zach coming closer made Chris want to back up, and even as he thought it, he did it, vaguely surprised when his butt hit the kitchen cabinets. “Of course I think about it. But it’s so lovely just to watch you go all white and lick your lips nervously, yes – like that – perfect. And then you start getting your color back, up here in your cheeks.” Zach placed two careful hands on either side of Chris’s face and brushed thumbs gently underneath his eyes, back over his cheekbones. “And your pulse jumping in your throat.” Two warm fingers pressed into the side of his neck, and Chris was aware of his heartbeat thrumming into Zach’s hand in a staccato rhythm. “Just like that,” Zach breathed, and kissed him hard, as though he could taste the fear on his tongue.

That’s as far as it went that day, and Chris figured it was because Zach was satisfied with the fear. But the morning after, Zach sat down opposite him at the kitchen bench while Chris was still half asleep and praying for his morning coffee to kick in, and placed the knife between them on the counter.

“I want to make a picture,” Zach said. Chris thought about the last time Zach made a picture, all bruises and scratches, and shivered. “Not like that,” Zach added, proving to Chris at least that he _did_ read minds. “This won’t hurt like that, and it won’t be quite so confronting. And it’ll be on your back this time.”

“Alright. How deep do you want to cut?”

“Not deep. Just enough to raise a little blood. And a lot of scratches, too. I don’t want to leave any permanent scars but…I can’t guarantee it.”

“You can never guarantee it.”

“No.”

“But you never leave scars.”

“Not usually.”

Chris has a diminutive, shiny white mark on his shoulder from where Zach bit him, too pale to even call a scar, and currently a long, raw scratch curving around his ass that he’s pretty sure will fade to nothing eventually. Aside from that, he has no permanent marks from Zach, unless you count the sharpie initials on his butt, which Chris does not, because it’s not technically permanent.

“Okay,” Chris had said, wide awake by then. “Is there anything else you think I should know?” And he’d listened and nodded, and agreed, and then got home that night to find Zach in his living room and the knife on a pillow in his bedroom.

But nothing’s happened yet. Just a massage, and the knife on a pillow.

“I still think it’s beautiful,” Chris says.

“And you still sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“I’m not. That’s what I think.”

“Maybe. But finding it pretty doesn’t make you any more relaxed.” Zach grinds the heel of his hand into Chris’s shoulder, and Chris moans.

“God, that feels good.”

“Glad to hear it. Because soon…” The rest of the sentence remains unspoken, but it makes Chris’s tendons tighten up again. “Come on, relax,” Zach says, and Chris might not be able to see his face, but knows he has that satisfied grin he gets when Chris shows any kind of trepidation.

“I _am_ relaxed.”

“All this is just my imagination?” Zach gives another hard push into stiff muscle and Chris thinks he might start drooling into the pillow soon. It’s hard going, but _damn_ it’s good. Zach’s Magic Hands used for good instead of evil, for a change. And then Chris looks at the knife again and his stomach clenches up.

Things started exactly the same as usual. Zach stood near the doorway and watched Chris undress.

“You keep looking at the door,” Zach said, when Chris was struggling with socks. His fingers weren’t quite cooperating, but he managed to get them off by balancing with his other hand on the bed.

“Do I?”

“Are you planning to run for it?”

Chris gave a nervous laugh. “Uh. Last time…Last time I wanted to, yeah.”

“Last time was last time.”

Chris was on edge, jumpy, but Zach started with kisses this time instead of insults. Pointy, sharp, teeth-involved kisses, but kisses nonetheless. After a while, he shoved Chris backwards until he hit the bed and collapsed on to it and – _Now. It’ll start now_ , Chris thought, his adrenaline starting to surge.

But Zach had just arranged Chris to his liking on the bed and so far, no fear and no cutting. Chris is face down on top of old sheets with Zach straddling him for the massage. No lotion to lubricate his fingers, because Zach wants his canvas dry, and Chris is sure his skin is reddened, hot.

The sheet’s pattern has faded beyond recognition and it’s pilled all over like it’s been washed a hundred times more than it was ever meant to be. But it gives Chris something to concentrate on, or try anyway – he tries to figure out the pattern, tries to count the tiny bumps of cotton wadded up on themselves, tries to stop anticipating when Zach is going to start terrorizing him. Tries to put the knife out of his mind even though it’s right there on the other pillow in his line of sight.

 _It’s the same with Zach,_ he’d told Corey. _What he does, he does to show me that he cares._ Chris believes that, he really truly does, but sometimes it’s harder to remember than others. The anticipation and apprehension trickling down his spine are making this one of the harder times.

“I’m going to cut you now.”

“Mmkay.” Chris tries to sound tranquil, beyond it all, but Zach gives a little snort.

“Mmkay, Christopher.” Chris slits open his eyes to see Zach’s elegant fingers close on the knife and bring it closer to his face. Zach is leaning down over him, holding his shoulders firmly into the bed with one forearm across them, and when Zach speaks, his breath is warm against the back of Chris’s ear. “Still pretty?” He flicks the knife open and Chris goes stiff all over.

He gives a small whine and closes his eyes. Zach kisses his temple, and Chris realizes that he’s broken out in sweat across his brow.

“I know you’re afraid, and I love that. But this time you don’t have to be frightened,” Zach says, soothing. “Not this time. This time it’s just about the art.”

“Just about the art,” Chris repeats. Last time, Zach scared the hell out of him for a while before throwing him on the bed and cutting into him like he was conducting an autopsy. He shudders at the memory.

“I just want to help you fly.” This time, Zach’s voice is full of kindness, and it makes Chris want to please him. “You can go flying, Christopher, while I do this.”

Last time he wasn’t allowed to, not until after the cutting. He’s not sure if it’s an act of charity or if Zach has something else in mind, but Zach is not being _dark_ tonight.

Zach is being kind and nice and making Chris feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

He licks Chris’s earlobe and says, “I want to taste it,” and that’s the last thing Chris is fully aware of for a while, because the idea of Zach savoring his blood? Is hot and scary and sickening and dangerous all at the same time. It’s too much for Chris to process, so he just lets go.

Chris hasn’t flown this high for a while, but the stars are all still there, just like he remembers them. Sometimes it’s canyons, sometimes it’s oceans; tonight it’s the stars, and they’re his favorite. He can still feel it, of course: the point of the knife trailing over his back in broad, slow strokes that could be brushwork if it weren’t for the itch and the tiny fire that follows each track. In the jumble of his thoughts each stroke is the tail of a falling star, racing across a sky as obsidian as the handle of the knife. He tries to wish on each one, but his wishes get tangled up in each other, in sentiments of wellbeing and gratitude and awe until all he’s left with are disjointed words. _Keep doing that_ and _feels good_ and _Zach_.

It’s a clenched hand in his hair that brings him back, the dull pain completely alien after the flutters of the knife. But even that doesn’t hurt like it should, like it _would_ if he were firmly back in his body again. Zach is lying on top of him, pressed close, enveloping him and twisting his head back to kiss his mouth.

Chris feels the sting of Zach’s sweat rubbing into the cuts on his back, can taste the blood on his lips, and for a second he pulls away. But Zach murmurs reassuring things and although the words don’t make much sense to Chris right now – _I love you right down to your hemoglobin_ – the tone does. So he moves slightly, twists his head so that Zach can kiss him, tastes metal and Zach’s familiar breath.

“Not scary,” Chris says, puzzled.

“Not tonight,” Zach confirms, and then moves to kiss down Chris’s back again. Chris can feel his tongue tracing over cuts and scratches, and there are vibrations of sound through his chest when Zach says things, tells him how good he is and how lovely he looks. He sinks back into himself more gently and more slowly than he ever has before, lulled back from the ether like a kite drawn in on its string.

Zach pulls him gently onto his side, pressed up behind him and waits until Chris stretches.

“Sex now?” Chris asks. He feels unbelievably good.

“Um,” Zach says. “I already…and so did you.”

Chris pats the bed, finds a wet patch. Weird. He twists around in Zach’s arms to look at him, wincing at the pain in his back. Zach seems peaceful, but his face is grubby, dirty with something rust-colored. It takes a moment for Chris to comprehend it, that his blood is smeared across his boyfriend’s face, and then another moment to decide how to feel about it.

“You made a mess,” he says with a smile. “All over your face.”

“I’ll go wash up,” Zach says immediately, but Chris pulls him down.

“Not yet.”

He feels alive, his nerves singing and his mind jumping from point to point, but it only takes a few minutes for him to fall into a deep sleep. Zach wakes him later to bandage him, but Chris is still half-asleep through the whole process. He does notice that Zach has cleaned his face.

In the morning, Chris feels fine. Better than fine. He’s so used to being mummified in bandages that it barely registers. He reads the morning papers in bed, and Zach steals the crossword section before Chris can really get started on it. There is coffee, and a fresh croissant for Chris and a cookie thing for Zach, and sweet berries for both of them. Chris rarely feels this indulgent, lolling around until it hits eleven o’clock and Zach has finished the crossword and Chris is tired of the news.

“Come on,” he says to Zach eventually. “Don’t you want to have a look at your handiwork? I want to see the picture.”

It takes forever for Zach to un-bandage him in the bathroom, because he stops after every wind of the gauze to kiss the appearing flesh. Chris’s skin is tender, and the press of Zach’s lips makes him ache, a sweet soreness. Once the bandages are gone, Zach cleans him carefully again with a warm, wet wash cloth, and then holds up a mirror for Chris to look into, to see his back reflected in the bigger mirror above the sink.

It’s very pink, his upper back, and it takes a moment for Chris to discern the markings, but when he does, he catches his breath. It’s definitely not what he expected. Stylized wings, arching across his shoulders and down his back. The outside lines are shallow cuts, and stand out in angry crimsons. And inside the lines, Zach has taken his time scratching in feathers, delicate detailed work that must have taken hours. The wings extend down his spine and out across his shoulder blades. His skin looks puffy, but there’s barely any bruising, just the different red and pink shades of the scratches and the cuts.

“Wow.”

“You like it?”

“You gave me _wings_.”

Chris cranes his neck, trying to see without the second mirror. It hurts slightly, but itches more, like scratches usually do. Chris thinks about Corey suddenly, and laughs. He turns back and pulls Zach’s arms around his waist. “You’ve changed.”

“What do you mean?” Zach nuzzles into his neck but Chris can tell he’s peeking at his artwork in the mirror. Zach’s fingers splay over his back and press gently into the cuts, making him gasp.

“I can’t imagine you being so nice to Byron before all your therapy. You’re more patient now. Well, usually.”

“Maybe I’ve mellowed. Does that hurt?”

“A little. Not much.”

“I want to dress you today. Can I?”

“Interesting. Yes. And Zach – did you mean what you said when we were at that party with Byron? About swapping roles again?”

“Sure. It’s been a long time. I’m up for it, if you are.”

“I think I need to. Soon.” It’s a relief to know he can ask for it when he needs it. “Is this dressing me thing a sign you want to try a total power exchange again soon?”

“Maybe. But I have a grander design. You’ll see,” Zach adds, as Chris opens his mouth to ask another question. “You really _do_ ask a lot of questions. Come on, let’s shower.”

After the shower, and the hand jobs, and the drying, and the re-bandaging, and the insistent questions about how much it hurts and does Chris want some pain relief, and the sharpie, Zach makes him stand in the bedroom and dresses him like he’s an enormous Ken doll. Briefs and dress pants and a formal shirt – “What _is_ all this? We’re not going out anywhere, are we?”

“No.” Zach rummages for one last addition to the outfit.

“I’m not wearing that,” Chris says immediately, when Zach holds up an antiquated-looking contraption. “What _is_ it?”

“ _They_ are braces.” Chris gives him a blank look. “Suspenders. For your pants. Oh, come on,” he wheedles as Chris shakes his head. “You _said_ you would let me dress you.”

“Zach,” Chris whines, “I’ll look like an idiot!”

“Totally stylish. Besides, like you said, we’re not going out anywhere. This is purely for my pleasure when I look at you.”

“Oh, my God. I can’t believe you sometimes. Why are you even…”

He grumbles as Zach rigs him up, but Zach’s motivations become apparent very quickly. The elasticized straps rub across the cuts on Chris’s shoulder blades, making him itch even under the soft cotton bandages, making him hurt, making him entirely aware of what lies beneath his shirt, hidden to the world but still there.

Still real: his wings.

Chris likes it, although he keeps up the scowl. “Good thing I’m not seeing Corey today with these stupid suspenders on. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from snapping them.”

Zach just smiles, and snaps them himself.


End file.
